


whatever here that's left of me is yours just as it was

by evanescent



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Missing Scenes, Relationship Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:47:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23581843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evanescent/pseuds/evanescent
Summary: Georgie makes an affirmative noise. "You go to a couple of events like this one — well," she scrunches up her nose, "maybe a littlebetterthan this one, and you start recognizing people and making connections. It's not a huge community, after all.""I guess so. A lot of people seem to be in for the experience and then drop out when they find it disappointing," Melanie says and shrugs. "But it is a job, so."At that, Georgie gives her an amused look. "Paranormal investigating? I mean, sure, but why not start a show about, I don’t know, gaming or literallyanythingelse instead? Would be much easier.""Too mainstream. I like a little challenge, getting into places where I'm not wanted and all that," she answers, solemn. It’s not a lie, though the truth is probably more complicated than what she’s figured out so far. What matters is that her response makes Georgie laugh and it's such a nice, warm sound, and Melanie thinks, pleased,I made her laugh....Melanie King isn't used to good things justcomingher way, much less — staying. But there's always a first, isn't there.
Relationships: Georgie Barker/Melanie King
Comments: 22
Kudos: 43
Collections: What the Girlfriends Week 2020





	whatever here that's left of me is yours just as it was

**Author's Note:**

> this is actually the first tma fic i started writing, back in february. as you can see it took... a while to finish this thing - i like to call it "a 7k words long love letter to melanie's character from yours truly" - but i managed in time for the what the gfs week, so cheers!
> 
> violence tag is for the scene when the flesh attacks the institute and while it's not described in a very graphic way, it's rather intense, so heads up. as for melanie's sexuality, since it's not explicitly stated in canon, i hc her as a lesbian who identified as bi for a long time, and that's the route i took here - just saying it at the start, in case it's not your cup of tea
> 
> title from hozier's as it was which really has that what the gfs vibe

“I am going to Sheffield for a couple of days,” Melanie tells Andy. It’s the first time any of them spoke in almost an hour even though they’ve been sitting at the opposite ends of the couch for even longer, Melanie doing work on her laptop and Andy… eating a salad, apparently.

“Oh — okay. What for?” he asks conversationally. She almost says, _Investigating_ , but catches herself in time. She doesn’t want him to give her that look again, the mix of unease and worry that doesn’t suit the laid-back Andy she knows at all.

“I have a family there I haven’t visited in a while,” is what she settles on.

This seems to pique his interest instead of satisfying it. “Really? You never said,” he remarks, puzzled.

Melanie feels her irritation flare up. “Well, I don’t have to tell you everything, do I?” she snaps.

Andy raises his hand, placating. “Hey, it’s fine.” He pushes the salad around his plate with a fork and asks, “When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow morning,” Melanie says, shutting the laptop and getting up. She’s already running a mental check in her head — she packed torches and batteries, still needs to collect all her notes; she will look through them one more time on her way. And that’s what she’s going to do when Andy’s nervous chuckle stops her.

“Well, actually, I’ve been thinking of going on some vacation myself.”

She turns back to him, unsure if she heard right. “What?” she asks as Andy sighs, abandons his salad altogether. At the very least, he looks at her when he says, “I decided to take a break from Ghost Hunt UK, Melanie. And I mean,” he adds when she’s about to remind him they’re on their scheduled, if longer than usual, hiatus, “an official one. I’ve grown pretty tired of juggling our social media and being vague about when we’re coming back.”

Melanie doesn’t mean for her first response to be an accusation, but it spills out anyway, the acid in her words audible. “So what, you’re jumping the ship just like Toni and Pete did?”

“That’s not — I’m not saying I’m quitting,” he protests, even as his eyes stray from her gaze. “I just need a bit of a holiday, okay?”

“And how long is this ‘holiday’ going to last?” Melanie presses on, wanting him to try and lie to placate her or just straight up say the truth.

“I’m… not sure yet,” Andy admits. He sounds a little sorry, but doesn’t offer any further explanations or reassurances. The silence between them stretches. Melanie huffs a humourless laugh.

“So, that’s it, huh?” she muses, crossing her arms over her chest. It’s better than standing with her hands clenched into fists, quaking by her sides, but only marginally. “You’re throwing away everything we’ve worked on as if you don’t remember how much it took us to get where we are.” He mutters something that sounds like, _Of course I remember,_ as she goes on, “We didn’t have it easy. No one makes it easy for people like us, but we did it anyway. Moreover, we’re _good_ at what we do and people like it.” When Andy remains quiet this time, Melanie continues, hating the begging tone, “Come on, Andy, you’re my co-host and I… I can’t do this without you. You don’t change the winning team,” she adds, going for teasing and falling flat.

Andy sounds gentle when he reminds her, “We don’t really have a team at the moment, Mel.”

“So we can put a new crew together!” Melanie exclaims. “That’s not a problem. When I get back, I can start looking for —”

“I’m afraid it may prove to be more of a problem than you imagine,” he interrupts her. It takes Melanie a moment to realize what he’s getting at and then she feels both hot and cold all of a sudden.

“You’re saying it’s my fault —”

“Could you stop! I’m not accusing you of anything!” It’s so rare of Andy to raise his voice that it effectively makes her fall silent. He exhales, rubs a hand across his eyes. “Jesus, Melanie, we’ve known each other for years and I’ve always been at your side when it mattered.” _Not now, not about this_ , she wants to point out. Andy continues, “However, with your recent… _inquiries_ about some things, I’m under the impression you — and, by extent, Ghost Hunt — have become a little… ostracized in the community.”

There isn’t really anything Melanie can say to that. It’s true, even if she hasn’t voiced those thoughts out loud herself.

With no rebuttal from her, Andy states, “So really, you’re telling me I’m giving up on the show, but you haven’t worked on research relevant to it in _months_ , doing your own — thing instead.”

He’s right about that, too, and Melanie knows she’s been unfair with and towards him. It would be smarter to leave it all alone, safer, too, but — “I can’t stop,” she tells Andy, quiet and determined. “You didn’t see —” the image of Sarah Baldwin stapling the skin of her arm back together flashes in her mind, fresh as ever, before she thinks better of it. “There’s something out there and maybe it’s above — or, apparently, _beneath_ — my paygrade to deal with, but I know I’m on the right track.” _I have to be,_ she thinks, almost desperately.

Andy looks at her for a long moment before biting his lip and shaking his head. This rejection stings less than Melanie thought it would. Maybe she’s getting used to the feeling or maybe she’s just tired and numb.

“I have to finish packing and go to sleep. Is there something else you’d like to tell me?” she asks, curtly polite.

“Actually… yeah, there is.” Melanie braces herself for another argument about — well, there are many options to pick from, yet it still takes her by surprise when Andy says, “I’m moving out. My brother could use a helping hand, he’s going through a bad breakup.”

It all sounds sudden, but Melanie realizes it’s the opposite of that. “You’ve been thinking about it for a while, haven’t you,” she doesn’t really ask, rather states. Andy half-shrugs. She forces herself to sound airy as she teases, “And are _we_ breaking up as well?”

At that, Andy gives her a smile, perhaps the first real smile she’s on his face all in _weeks_. “Oh, Melanie,” he says, “I love you, but I think we both know it hasn’t been working out between us like that for quite a while now. Maybe not ever.”

She does know. She even knows why, at least on her part, but still — there’s only so much sound ground Melanie can lose in such rapid succession before the pit opens underneath her and swallows her whole.

She tells Andy goodnight and retreats into the bedroom, fire hot on her heels.

(When she comes back to the apartment a week later with a stab wound in her shoulder and the remains of her professional reputation completely tarnished, she finds the place spotless and bare of Andy’s things. He left her the key and a short note simply reading, _Take care of yourself_. Melanie begins to laugh and then grimaces in pain, the note crumpling in her fingers.

 _Just as well_ , she tells herself. _I wouldn’t want to be around for that, too_.)

…

Melanie is quite tipsy after the drinks and her brain is still stuck at the moment Georgie said, _Keep me updated and call if you ever wanna talk,_ and kissed her cheek goodbye, and that’s a valid explanation for accidentally bumping into the kitchen table, aggravating the leg she got shot in in India.

“Fuck,” she mutters under her breath and all but drops into the chair, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes. The pain is sharp but short-lived, just the right thing to clear her head, enough to remember that the actual last thing Georgie told her before she got off the bus was, _I will tell Jon you are going to meet him,_ with an exasperated eye roll.

Right. She agreed to meet with the guy she can’t stand and who’s a murder suspect at her new workplace. And yet, that is still not the weirdest thing that has happened to her recently, not by a long shot. Melanie sighs.

Going to the Magnus Institute to give a statement is one thing. Going back there to do research and give a second statement is another. Going there _again_ because you’re out of options and accepting a job on a whim is… something that required a sacrifice on the account of Melanie's pride to share, even with Georgie.

And it’s one thing, trying to grin and bear it in front of her co-workers who are a weird bunch not keen on her being there — if it was simply dislike or interpersonal tensions, Melanie could deal with it, she’s used to having to crave a space for herself in most of the places she goes to. But this is something… well, she still isn’t sure _what_ exactly. Tim talked quite a bit, although not much of it was coherent. And the worst thing, she isn’t even in the position to chalk it up to him losing his sanity because who is she to judge?

The wound in her shoulder is just a scar now and even that pain seemed almost agreeable compared to what she went through in India. Saying, _I was shot by a fused mass of war ghosts_ , however true, isn’t something to be thrown around lightly. It was real and it hurt. It was probably the most scared Melanie has been in her life.

And, as her conversation with TIm reminded her, there is this thing with Sashas, too.

She doesn’t know how to explain this, either. There’s Sasha she remembers describing to Jon — _tall, long hair, glasses_ — even though now her features are strangely fuzzy and blurry in Melanie's mind. She talked with Sasha about haunted pubs for over an hour and coming to the Institute before flying to India she hoped to see her again, maybe ask if she’d like to go out for a drink, haunted or not, when Melanie got back.

Instead, this other woman was there, polite and pleasing enough. _Here to see Jon?,_ she asked while the other two assistants bickered — or rather, argued over something — and Tim snorted, remarked, _Waste of your time_ , without even looking at her, and Martin sounded irritated as he said, _Would you_ please _stop._ Melanie remembers being led downstairs, to the office, and not feeling any kind of desire to strike up a conversation with that woman who was just an inch or two taller than Melanie, yet whose whole… way of being didn’t seem to quite match her stature. It’s something Melanie could understand, making up for physical shortcomings by making your presence known, but it didn’t seem to be the case. It’s just, there was something about the assistant informing Jon Melanie is here to see him, then smiling at her, saying, _I hope you two will have a fruitful talk_ , as if she was in on some sort of a secret. The sensation of profound wrongness came over Melanie, the ringing dissonance between the person in front of her and what they hid inside.

But the moment passed and she was probably wrong about that, anyway. She had to be. When they meet, she will ask Jon and he better have some damn answers for her.

...

One of the nurses points her in the right direction and as expected, Melanie finds him outside, on the terrace of the Ivy Meadows, an abandoned jigsaw puzzle on the table next to him.

"Hi, dad," she greets him, sitting down in the other chair. He drags his gaze away from the line of the trees and when he looks at her, his eyes are a little clouded over and far away, but the flick of recognition is there, followed by a smile.

"Melanie," he says, holding his palms out to her and she reaches across the table, lets him take her hands and squeeze them. His are dry and warm. "My little moth. How are you?"

 _Better now_ , she wants to say, but only smiles and talks a little about what's been going on. Her father does his best to listen, a crinkle forming between his eyebrows, and he nods at times, though his focus strays from her and his confusion about things she's already told him before is palpable. It only highlights how young he still looks, how young he still _is._ Melanie's heart aches.

She knows one day the illness will take away the memories of her from him, too, and he will look at her and not know who she is. She knows it and yet can't imagine preparing herself for how much it will hurt. 

But for now, he's still there with her, and she's helping him do the puzzle. She’s pretty sure it’s the Bay of Islands and only grows more certain as the picture comes together. Her father seems lost in thought.

“It looks pretty,” he remarks. “Not as pretty as Ha Long Bay, though. I went there when I was young, with… your uncle.” He looks at her, as if searching for confirmation. Melanie nods; she heard that story many times before. This seems to put her father on ease. “Yes, your uncle Tung,” he repeats, more sure this time. “We had to save money for months and it was a long way from our province, but it was worth it. I wish I could see it again.” He sounds wistful. Melanie makes a mental note to come with some pictures the next time, even though it’s obviously not the same and she’ll most likely have to remind him why she brought them in the first place. But that’s okay.

It’s late in the afternoon when she finally leaves. “I’m going to be busy with work for a while, but I’ll try to visit soon again,” Melanie promises. Her father smiles pleasantly at her.

“Do bring your mother the next time, alright?” he asks. Her own smile wavers for a split second, but she composes herself quickly.

“Okay,” she agrees, kissing him on the cheek.

(This was the last time Melanie saw her father alive. He was well, as well as he could be, not in pain. This is how she wants to remember him, desperately, even though the knowledge placed in her mind shatters that image mercilessly.

Sleep is harder and harder to come by. She starts taking pills. Her pillowcase is damp in the mornings anyway.)

…

Melanie looks back over her shoulder only once after she and Martin all but flee the Institute, the box with tapes, papers and some other interesting things from Elias’s office digging into her armpit. It’s just a building, old and kind of ugly if she was to be honest, yet looking at it now, looming, _sneering_ at them, she thinks it’s something else than just a mass of stone and mortar. Something worse.

She gives it a mental fuck you and continues walking. After turning some corners they dive into a deserted cafe they deem to be far enough from the Institute. She shoves the box into Martin’s arms and tells him to go take a seat. The cashier doesn’t look at her too closely as Melanie orders a decaf and a tea. She then proceeds to thrust the latter in front of Martin, who almost jumps.

“Drink it,” she tells him. They may make fun of him for turning to tea as means of fixing everything, but Melanie doesn’t know him well enough to do anything else and she isn’t great at comforting, especially not right now, not these days. All her edges seem too sharp and jagged, burning red like hot iron.

Martin mumbles his thanks, takes a sip, makes a displeased face (she forgot sugar, she realizes), but continues to drink it regardless. He still looks pale and his eyes are red rimmed, though the shaking subdued. Melanie downs her own coffee, not really tasting it. With fake cheer, she announces, “Well, we did it. Still think we should have killed him, though.”

“You make your point clear enough, Melanie,” Martin replies. There’s a touch of anger in his voice, but it seems defensive and exhausted. “But it’s not done until we get this to the police.” He taps the box, clears his throat. “And not until Jon and the others return.”

“Do you really think they will?” she asks quietly. It’s not out of cruelty; she’s genuinely curious. Martin shifts in his seat, looks at his hands as he states, "Well, I have to hope.”

She snorts, shakes her head. “I wish it worked like that,” she says. “That believing in something hard enough will make it happen. But if it did, we wouldn’t be here, would we?”

Martin grimaces and doesn’t say anything to that, only checks his phone for updates. They will have to move soon and go through to the contents of the box. In the meantime, Melanie feels her own phone vibrate in her pocket. It’s from Georgie, this much she knows, but Melanie doesn’t read the message. She will do it later, she will talk to her when she finds words that don’t threaten to turn into ash in her mouth.

 _Elias should be dead_ , she thinks again and her hands itch for a deed undone.

...

The floor is there and then, simply, it _isn't_.

Melanie drops the mug she’s been holding as those — _things_ keep squeezing and wriggling and flapping and turning all over the ground. They sound like wet meat come alive, blood sloshing with every movement. She doesn't stop to consider them any further because otherwise she wouldn't have the mental fortitude to take it.

Her first instinct is to run, upstairs and as far away from here as possible, but then she hears gunshots. Right, Basira, Basira was still around. Melanie can't leave her.

There's a knife lying on the counter and she doesn't think twice about grabbing it. She follows the shooting and doesn't slip or trip, even though they try pretty hard to make her fall. At some point, she sees Martin, or so she thinks it's him; it must be, who else is left down here? More importantly, she sees someone frozen in fear and easy for picking.

"Get away!" she shouts at him and doesn't stop to check if he listens.

Melanie rounds the corner and that's where she finds them — Basira, gun drawn but apparently empty, her hijab all messed up, covered in blood and surrounded by those things that would like nothing more than to take her apart. And he’s there, too.

"No use in running, copper. The Archivist one." It sounds as if he's chewing on something as he speaks, his speech garbled. "I came for him. Where's he?"

 _Of course_ he's here for Jon, Jon who's dead or as good as dead and most importantly _not here_ , but monsters come barging in asking for him anyway.

"You seem to have outdated information, Hopworth," Basira says, voice level, but her gaze moving rapidly. She's trying to make a plan and coming up short. "He's not around anymore."

The huge figure slumps somewhat, as if dejected. "Eh. A pity." It's followed by a shrug of too many arms and, "So I'm gonna take yer bones instead. Hope they're good."

That's when Melanie decides she's heard enough and starts moving. The creatures swarm towards her, so she fights back, stabs and cuts and tears and rips the flesh they're made of. That gets a reaction out of the Boneturner.

"What are ye doing?" he bellows, shifting his attention to Melanie. "You’re _hurting_ them!"

That only makes her stab harder and him grow more enraged. Melanie is cutting her way to Hopworth quicker than she'd have expected and she doesn't have a plan.

 _Find his heart_ seems simple enough, as good as any. So Melanie charges and plunges her knife into his chest, feeling the muscle clench around the blade before it stops. The Boneturner trashes, barely giving her time to retrieve the knife and reevaluate the situation. More than one heart, then. She's breathing heavily, but she’s not tired or in pain, and so she doesn't give him a chance to recover. She gets close again, scrapes a bone or two, ruptures some other of his organs when her guess is wrong, and then immediately the second heart in his thigh. From this wound, the blood flows heavily.

"Stop it," he growls and gasps when she gets another of his hearts, this one situated where a kidney should be. "Stop it!" he cries and yet, he's still not dropping dead or unconscious, he's just slowing down, and even that only barely.

He's clearly reaching for her now and Melanie knows this: if he gets his hands on her — _in_ her — she will die.

So she cuts off his arms.

On some level, Melanie realizes it shouldn't be possible, to slice off chunks of flesh this big in clean, single strikes with a simple knife. Not for anyone and definitely not for someone of her stature. And yet, this is what happens and the hands that were about to close around her ribcage fall to the ground with a meaty thump, limp and twitchy.

The Boneturner screams, or something close to it, and there's pain there, just like when she stabbed through his hearts, but also surprise and something else, something like…

"What are you," he doesn't quite ask and his flesh spasms and his bones rattle and it sounds like music, in Melanie's ears. He's _afraid_ , she realizes, acutely aware and breathless and giddy with the sensation, and then he's turning his back on her and simply making a run for it.

And even as relief floods Melanie's mind, her body seems to be acting out of its own accord — she takes one step, then another, her fingers closed tightly over the hilt of the knife. Some part of her _wants_ to go after him and finish the job, find whatever hearts he has left and pierce through them, watch as the blood goes still and quiet.

And maybe that's what she'd do, but then the Boneturner is going through a door, and in his hurry and confusion he doesn't seem to realize where, exactly, he's stopped into. Melanie gets a glimpse of a long, winding corridor before the door closes with an ominous creek. Helen's long fingers give the handle a testing tug.

"I haven't had an Avatar of the Flesh in my corridors before," she says by the way of explanation. "I wonder how he will like it there."

Melanie really hopes he won’t, but it’s a distant thought, not quite all here, and so it takes her a moment to realize someone's calling out her name. She snaps her head towards the sound, seeing Basira, bloodied and ashen, but standing straight. She doesn't come closer. There's something careful, assessing in her eyes as she regards Melanie, repeating her name again.

"We're safe. It's over," Basira says and finally Melanie relinquishes her hold on the knife, letting it clatter to the floor. She looks around; the carnage is so strong Melanie can _smell_ it. If the laugh that makes it out of her mouth touches on the edge of hysterical, neither Basira nor Helen comment on it. Her throat is raw and aching, and that's how she realizes she must have been screaming. Quite a lot.

"Sure. Safe."

That word hasn't meant anything in a long time.

…

The pain in her leg has subsided into a dull, pulsating thing, though the memory of her “operation” is violent and vivid in ways that seem so distant now. Physical pain aside, there’s something hollow and gaping inside of Melanie, right where rage and vindication have made their home before being so brutally taken away from her.

They’ve left her alone for now, at least. It’s dark in the room and laying on her camp bed, Melanie suddenly thinks about Tim, out of all people.

She didn’t like him, not with the way he was when she knew him, but she could understand him just a touch too well — the anger, the grief, seeking a closure to something that would never be absolved. The helplessness and grasping at straws to gain control of at least one aspect of your life, even if that were be the last act of defiance.

She’s still here, despite all odds, probably the most herself she’s been in the longest time — but what is left of her, precisely, now that this anger pushing her through is gone, returned to its old, simmering levels? All those months Melanie spent not daring to examine other feelings brimming under the surface of her rage now leave her mind lost in her own body.

What does she want, exactly?

 _Not to become a shadow of my own self_ may be a sentiment come too late, but she welcomes it nonetheless.

 _I don’t want to die_ , she thinks because the fear returned, or maybe it never left, only changed its mask. It’s ironic, really, considering how much she hates what has become of her life. But eldritch fear powers be damned, it’s _her_ life, and even if her bad choices led her to the storage room in the basement of the fucking Magnus Institute, they can lead her back out of it, if only just a little further away from the oppressing surveillance of too many eyes.

Even now, she also realizes — it’s hard. It’s too hard for her to manage on her own.

Melanie has always had trouble asking for help. Besides, it’s not like there’s anyone she can turn to in this situation — no family left, former friends and colleagues turned their back on her without looking back, her current co-workers stuck in the same predicament as she is. There is no one.

Well... that is not quite true.

She fumbles for her phone in the darkness, her hands trembling. It’s been — she can’t even remember clearly how long it’s been since they last talked, _really_ talked. Weeks. Months, probably. Maybe it’s already too late, maybe she won’t want to have anything to do with her anymore —

But then the call connects and the air rushes out of Melanie’s lungs in a shaky exhale. “Hey,” is the only thing she manages before her throat closes up and it figures the words are failing her when she needs them the most.

“ _Melanie_.” Georgie sounds... she isn’t quite sure, relieved? Happy? She can’t tell, but she knows that hearing Georgie say her name like that makes the pressure at the base of her throat uncurl and the corners of her eyes are burning hot — with tears, she realizes, startled. “ _I’m so glad you called_.”

…

Melanie first met Georgie a couple of years ago, at what turns out to be her introduction to, describing it broadly, "supernatural media" community.

The decorations at the pub are cheap, but thankfully sparse, with all the makings of a high school Halloween party taking place in June. Melanie is standing to the side, leaning against a wall and sipping on her beer (not great, though she had worse), pretending to listen to some youtuber sharing his latest experience.

"—and so our equipment started going _crazy_ , I tell you that, and I'm sure most of you know how much better those new infrared thermometers work," the guy goes on as some people gathered around him nod solemnly, as if they really knew. Personally, Melanie was just waiting for him to get to the actual encounter (if there was one at all) or shut up.

"What a load of crap," someone next to her mutters and it startles her so much she gives a little laugh.

"Yeah? You don't say," she agrees, turning her head to look at the honest spectator. She's taller than Melanie, dark skinned and dressed sort of like an anarchist college student she definitely isn't anymore. Her hair is black, except for a streak of white falling around the side of her face.

"He's only talking about all that to flaunt that his parents are rich enough to give money for his hobbies and that's, unfortunately, 'hunting ghosts' right now," the woman says dryly. Louder, she calls out, "Come on, Terry, enough with the product placement, where's the ghost?" A few people laugh at that and Terry goes red, clearly embarrassed. To Melanie, she explains, "I know him from uni. He's just as insufferable as he was back then."

Melanie is grinning, despite regretting she was here at all barely a minute ago. She likes her, she decides. "Some people just have it _too_ easy, don't they?" She holds out her free hand. "Melanie King."

The woman's hand is steady, a little cool as she introduces herself. "Georgie Barker. Hi." Georgie gives her a quick, assessing look. "Which one are you?"

"No one yet," Melanie admits. "Just a beginner youtuber. You?"

Georgie hums; she has a really nice voice and so Melanie is pleased when she says, "Podcasting. But only some appearances at other people’s shows so far. I'm gearing up to start my own."

"Fiction?" Melanie asks, curious.

"Yeah, nonfiction-styled fiction is the idea," Georgie elaborates. She steps closer to Melanie, to get out of the way of some guy carrying _way_ too many pints in his hands. "That being said, you wouldn't happen to know a good sound engineer with a free schedule, would you?"

"Sorry. To be honest, this is kind of why I and my friend are here, to get some contacts, maybe find people who would like to work with us," Melanie admits. Apparently, sharing stories is over for now and someone turned up the music of a surprisingly non-spooky kind.

Georgie makes an affirmative noise. "You go to a couple of events like this one — well," she scrunches up her nose, "maybe a little _better_ than this one, and you start recognizing people and making connections. It's not a huge community, after all."

"I guess so. A lot of people seem to be in for the experience and then drop out when they find it disappointing," Melanie says and shrugs. "But it is a job, so."

At that, Georgie gives her an amused look. "Paranormal investigating? I mean, sure, but why not start a show about, I don’t know, gaming or literally _anything_ else instead? Would be much easier."

"Too mainstream. I like a little challenge, getting into places where I'm not wanted and all that," she answers, solemn. It’s not a lie, though the truth is probably more complicated than what she’s figured out so far. What matters is that her response makes Georgie laugh and it's such a nice, warm sound, and Melanie thinks, pleased, _I made her laugh_. 

"Well, you're bound to love it here, then," Georgie says knowingly. And maybe she would say more, but then Andy shows up suddenly, his elbow knocking into Melanie's.

"Mel! Here you are!" he calls, a little out of breath.

"Andy, I _am_ talking," Melanie says pointedly. Andy blinks, says hello to Georgie who just nods, still amused.

"Yeah, sorry about that, but there's this girl Antonia — says to call her Toni, though — and she's a camerawoman. She showed me some of her stuff and it's pretty solid." He seems pretty excited, talking over the music to be heard.

 _That_ gets Melanie's attention; they do need someone to do camera work if they want to get anywhere. She shoots Georgie an apologetic look. "Would you mind —"

"Go," Georgie tells her, understanding having to seize the opportunity well enough. "If we endure and make it somewhere in this community, I suppose we will be seeing more of each other."

Melanie hopes she's right, on both accounts.

…

It's raining when she briskly leaves the therapist's office, the front door of the building slamming shut behind her. Melanie throws the jacket over her head and she wades through the puddles, only realizing her stupidity when she stops by Georgie's car. How is she supposed to — 

The door on the passenger side opens and Georgie's voice drifts outside. "Get in, Melanie, you will be soaking wet."

She blinks in surprise before obeying. Once inside, she jokes, "I'm afraid I already am. Sorry about that." Her jacket is dripping, but Melanie's fingers are still gripping it tightly. "I thought you went for coffee." That's usually what Georgie does while waiting for her.

"The rain made me reconsider. I ended up catching up with some things instead," she explains, phone and earphones in her lap. She gives Melanie some tissues that she accepts on the principle of them being better than nothing. Georgie notes, "You left earlier than scheduled. Again."

It's an effort for Melanie, to clamp down her first reaction, a defensive one. She takes a moment to say, "Yeah." And then, she struggles to add, "I don't think it's — working out."

Georgie frowns slightly. "With this therapist? It's okay, there's many others still to —"

"No, no, the therapist is — she's pretty good, actually. Definitely the best I've been to so far," Melanie hurries to explain. "It's just… _how_ can I be sure she's who she claims to be?" she stresses, hands clenching and unclenching. "She appears to be normal enough, sure, accepts that I can't tell her everything about my… _work situation_ , seems to genuinely want to help me — but does she really?" It feels stupid, voicing those concerns, but now that she started talking, she she can't stop. "When she asks me about something, I'm sometimes paralyzed with fear because how does she know? Did I mention it in a previous session? Did she make an educated assumption?" Melanie laughs, but it's strained. "Some of the worst things are almost… easy to talk about, as if I'm taking the weight off my chest. That scares me, too."

She can’t bring herself to look at Georgie after that, hating that she may see the pity on her face. She feels embarrassed and uncomfortable because why things can’t just _work out_ , she’s trying, she really is —

But when Georgie speaks, it doesn't sound pitying or patronizing; she simply says, "Taking something at face value is sometimes the hardest thing there is, Melanie. Recognizing that you can't be absolutely sure whether or not your doubts are irrational, but still deciding to trust and take the leap.”

She knows Georgie is right. But can Melanie do this, accept that the way things seem is the way they actually _are_?

Can she let go of the paranoia and let herself accept _good_ things for what they are? 

"Do you want to drive back now?" Georgie asks, after a while.

Melanie shakes her head, dripping water still. She doesn't want to take up more of Georgie's time than she does already, but she also doesn't want to be alone at her apartment now, so she manages to ask, "Can we just… stay here a little longer?"

Georgie reaches over and squeezes her hand. "Sure," she agrees and Melanie finally lets go of her wet jacket. After a moment of hesitation, she takes one of the ear buds Georgie's offered her. Georgie's cheer doesn't sound forced as she says, "There's this baking podcast I've started listening to recently and it's pretty fun, these people are _really_ passionate about their sweets."

And so they sit in the parking lot listening to a heated debate about biscuits and scones as the rain pounds outside.

...

“Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind doing it, but what brought this about?” Georgie asks, applying another layer of dye to Melanie’s hair. They’re in Georgie’s bathroom and they can hear the jazz station playing from the radio in the kitchen. The Admiral tried to sneak in earlier, but apparently deemed the smell and overall messiness beneath his standards and left them to their own devices.

“Daisy asked me to cut her hair today,” Melanie explains, eyes closed. She’s sitting on a stool in front of the mirror, letting Georgie’s nimble fingers work their way through her hair, lightly grazing her scalp. It’s a nice sensation. “Considering the poor quality of the scissors, I think I did a pretty good job and almost went out to buy the dye for myself, but then thought better of it.” It’s not that she didn’t trust Daisy with that, it’s more about… learning to manage your impulses, she supposes.

Georgie laughs at that. “Well, I’m glad. I will have you know the lightning in my bathroom is _immaculate_.” It’s Melanie’s turn to chuckle, the tension of the day gradually bleeding out of her. Georgie hums in tune to the song and asks, “Do you want me to apply it on the entire length?”

“No, just the roots,” Melanie says. "I think after this I will grow it out a little and return to my natural color," she debates.

"Have I ever actually _seen_ you in your natural color?" Georgie teases. Melanie lightly elbows her somewhere around the hip. Georgie laughs again and says, “You’d look good, though. And I think... that length,” she cards her gloved fingers down Melanie’s hair, “would suit you well.”

Melanie opens her eyes and looks at them in the mirror. Georgie’s hand is just around the line of her exposed collarbone, a little lower than where the ends of Melanie’s hair fall now. There’s warmth and fondness in Georgie’s gaze and it’s so honest and unguarded it almost knocks the air out of Melanie’s lungs.

There’s strength to be found in openness and vulnerability, she realizes. She’s not quite there yet, but she’s getting somewhat close, in her own way. It’s always been hard to be brave when all you ready yourself is being burned and disappointed. Nevertheless, Melanie raises her arm and sees herself reach out and catch the strand of white in Georgie's hair between her index and middle finger.

“For the longest time, I thought you were been dyeing it,” she admits and her voice has no business being so hushed talking about hair. But it’s more than just the hair. It’s something that Melanie wondered about from time to time and especially in the recent months. The kind of energy Georgie emanates, this logical, understanding, no nonsense and no more than she’s willing to take attitude — it always felt like a thing learned and cultivated, not simply born.

Something in Georgie's expression changes; it doesn’t close off, but goes a little wistful.

"I will tell you about it some time," she promises. "I just don't think it's something you particularly need to hear now."

 _There's nothing about you I don't want to hear_ , Melanie almost says, but knows this is not a rebuff nor coddling; this is just Georgie establishing boundaries for both of their sakes, and Melanie loves her for it.

And then, once again, she thinks, _I love her_. Admitting that isn’t as scary as Melanie would have thought it will be; if anything, it settles something that has been feeling restless for the longest time.

She exhales slowly and drops her hand to her lap, presses her back against Georgie just a little closer. "Okay," she agrees. "Thank you."

...

Melanie sits down. The awl is laying on the bench beside her, along with some bandages, water, and compresses. As much of a first aid as she can and should prepare at hand, she supposes.

It’s — she doesn’t have doubts. It’s like they agreed, the solution is almost ridiculously simple and direct in its nature, so contrary to the layers of deception and supervision the Eye so dearly loves. It will work. The way out she so desperately wanted, the shortcut to freedom, at a price. A price she’s willing to pay.

So no, she isn’t hesitating. It’s just, as much as she doesn’t really hate Jon now, she still hates this place, and she doesn’t particularly want them to be the last things her eyes see. Most of the things she would like to see again — the hazy memory of her mother’s smile, her father’s warm, loving gaze, her first pet, Lyra, a huge yet gentle Leonberger — are out of her reach, so Melanie focuses on what she can grasp.

The collection of pictures of Georgie she has on her phone has grown significantly in recent months, and as she goes through them now, Melanie can’t help the smile making its way on her face. There are some selfies of the two of them, but most shots are candids of just Georgie, usually with the Admiral (or a part of him, at least) somewhere within the frame. Her favourite may be this one, taken some evening in the kitchen — Georgie sitting at the other side of the table, one hand petting the Admiral’s black back, the other holding a half-empty glass of wine, a fierce, animated expression adorning Georgie’s face, a clear sign she was in the middle of retelling a time she tore into someone for being an idiot. It’s silly, uncomplicated and it’s _theirs_. The warmth it brings into Melanie’s feels a lot like home.

She puts her phone away and gets to work.

…

Melanie realizes something is tickling her nose. Her first thought, still half-asleep and sluggish, is that it’s the Admiral’s tail; it wouldn’t be the first time he jumped into their bed in the morning, demanding attention. But she quickly realizes the sensation is completely different and scrunches up her nose in momentary confusion.

“A... feather?” she guesses.

“Yeah,” Georgie confirms and Melanie can hear the smile in her voice; she gets tickled on the nose with the feather one more time for her troubles and then a quick kiss is placed there instead. “A goose feather.”

“Why do you have — you know, nevermind.” Melanie aborts the question in favor of carefully rolling around, closer to Georgie. “What time it is?” she asks against the hollow of her throat, her hand finding its way into Georgie’s hair.

“Just after seven.” Georgie’s arm is warm, draped across Melanie’s waist, fingers drawing idle, soothing patterns on the expanse of her exposed lower back. “It’s gearing up for a storm, I think. Makes me _not_ want to get out of the bed.”

Melanie listens, taking it in — yes, she can hear the rain outside and then a thunder, though it seems distant for now. Those sounds have been background noises for most of her life and now they’re somewhat both a novelty and a comforting constant.

They will have to get up soon, she knows. They need to feed the Admiral, Georgie has an episode to record and Melanie has to continue familiarizing herself with the new-old environment, even if it’s more than a bit frustrating at times.

Melanie mumbles a vague affirmation and offers, “More sleep, then?” She feels Georgie’s chest shake as she huffs a laugh.

“Sure,” she agrees, and so they sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> georgie having a white streak was inspired by [this very good art](https://creatrixanimi.tumblr.com/post/613152204491292672/people-always-talk-about-white-haired-martin-and)
> 
> hope you enjoyed, kudos and comments are much appreciated! i'm on twitter @ lenaleeiee, currently basically on a s5 lockdown all week every week, so tune in if you want


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